


lift me like an olive branch

by pr0serpina



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Episode: s05e05 Lieutenant Radar O'Reilly, Fluffuary, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr0serpina/pseuds/pr0serpina
Summary: "If the war's over, meet me under the clock at Grand Central in two years. We'll go dancing.""I lead.""Then you buy."





	lift me like an olive branch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justalittlegreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/gifts).



BJ’s pulse quickens. He walks about as fast as he can without breaking into a run. In his periphery, he’s aware of the splendor of Grand Central Station—the marble floors, the constellations on the ceiling, and the way the light trickles in through the high windows—but he’s not taking it in, or the rush of recycled air from the subterranean tracks, or the stale cigarette smoke that seems to leave tangible wisps of grime in the air. The huge dome-like clock marking the ticket and information booth pulls him like a homing device. Even at this hour, the crush of people is overwhelming. He cranes his neck; in his inexperienced way, he had thought that arranging to meet under the clock would be quite specific enough, not realizing it was the meeting place for lost lovers the world over.

A hand grasps at the sleeve of his best suit jacket, and he turns on his well-polished heel. Hawkeye’s face goes through the five stages of love, the lesser-known sibling of grief. He’s absolutely resplendent in a soft gray suit and crimson tie. “Is it really you?” he asks softly, voice cracking a little.

BJ’s chest is too small. He itches to take Hawkeye in his arms, to kiss him stupid, breathe in his familiar scent, stroke his face. The best he can do in such circumstances, which he hates, is cover Hawk’s hand with his own. “Who else would it be?”

Hawkeye’s wide grin shoots him straight in the heart. He whoops a little in laughter and hurtles himself into BJ’s chest, joy given physical form. He plants a kiss on BJ’s cheek. Always reckless. He shaves more often now than he did during the war. 

BJ pulls back just enough to be able to look—no, _gaze_ at him. “God, look at you,” he murmurs. “You look _incredible._ ”

Hawk smiles winningly and flutters his eyelashes. “It’s not every day a handsome stranger agrees to take me out for dinner and dancing.”

“Yes, I do recall remembering being told I’m buying,” BJ muses. “Gosh, I’m charming. Well, sailor, where are we headed?”

Hawk swallows, and BJ’s eyes follow the slim lines of his throat. “We’re flipping the order. Dancing up an appetite, then eating. I, uh...” He scratches at his hair, almost nervously, BJ thinks. “I know a place where we could...” He chews the inside of his lip, giving BJ a look that is both hopeful and afraid.

“Yes,” BJ says immediately. “God, Hawk. Yes.”

Hawk takes him by the hand, sort of. They keep so close together that there’s barely a breath between, touching-without-touching, so that BJ can feel the warmth of him as they press close on the crowded streets. Hawk leads him through twists, turns, and a tram, and BJ thinks idly of how New York City is supposedly the pinnacle of the American experience, but he’s hardly noticed a thing because he can’t keep his eyes off the man next to him. The club Hawk takes him to doesn’t look like much from the outside—no marquee and no sign that BJ can see. Hawkeye raps on the door in a pattern like he’s asking for entry into a speakeasy, although maybe he is. Hawkeye winks at him. “This place is need-to-know,” he says in a low voice as the door opens.

The inside is softly lit, with a real jazz band. Hawk tucks BJ into a small booth and gets them martinis made with real gin and vermouth. “What do we toast to?” BJ asks as Hawkeye piles in next to him. “Not to war.”

“Or peace.”

“Or you, or me.”

“Or the cigarette trees and the lemonade springs.”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

“Now that I’ll drink to!” Hawkeye gleefully clinks his glass against BJ’s. 

The martini is so smooth that BJ’s tastebuds rebel a little. “Who knew alcohol could hurt so little?”

“With gin like this, I could develop a drinking habit.” Hawkeye swishes the liquid idly. BJ wonders for the hundredth time at how Hawkeye manages to make everything he sits on look too small for him; his sprawl is all indifference and unintentional elegance. BJ shoots him a look at least as dry as the vermouth. Hawk shrugs in innocence and sips appreciatively. The band starts a new song, and Hawkeye slides out of the booth. “Dance with me,” he holds out his hand.

“If I’m leading, aren’t I supposed to ask?” BJ asks.

“Only if you’re quick,” Hawkeye grins.

BJ follows, but does a cursory and not-very-subtle check. The club is full of dancing couples—men dancing with men, women dancing with women, and everything and everyone in between. There are men kissing. Oh, it dawns on him. This is okay. They can do this here. Hawk slips into his arms easily, grasping his shoulders. He can’t help but think, almost reflexively, that it’s very different from dancing with Peg. They’re very nearly eye to eye, and resting his head on Hawk’s shoulder would be so easy, but he focuses on leading someone much larger than his wife. Hawk’s a graceful dancer and remarkably good at following.

"You're pretty good at this," Hawk says. "But your hand's riding awful high." 

“And here I was about to compliment you,” BJ replies. “I tend to do this with my wife, and she’s five feet tall.” Hawkeye tenses ever so slightly in his arms. BJ could almost convince himself that he imagined it. “She says hello, by the way, and looks forward to me bringing you back with me,” BJ says smoothly. “I’m sure I can find some places in San Francisco where we can get lots of practice dancing.”

Hawk relaxes and chuckles into BJ’s shoulder. BJ can smell Hawkeye’s spicy-sweet aftershave. Hawkeye hums under his breath to the music, resting his head on BJ’s shoulder as much as he can. BJ still can’t believe that they can do this outside of a closed hotel room, that he can hold Hawkeye semi-publicly and it’s all right, and that by miracles he doesn’t understand, there is a future waiting for him where he gets to have both people he loves.

He nudges Hawkeye’s head off his shoulder. He hadn’t planned on their first kiss being in a crowded queer nightclub, but the light is glinting in Hawk’s silvery hair and he’s looking at BJ with an expression of such tenderness that BJ’s heart swells and he takes Hawkeye’s face in his hands. Hawkeye tastes of gin and Sen-Sen and his lips are soft as silk. BJ’s not one for metaphors, but this feels like a promise: that they’ll be okay. That they’ll be a them. And as Hawkeye laughs breathlessly against his mouth, BJ thinks how glad he is that they agreed not to wait the whole two years before meeting at the clock.

**Author's Note:**

> Summary quote and inspiration from s05e05: Lieutenant Radar O'Reilly. Title from "Dance Me to the End of Love" by Leonard Cohen and covered by The Civil Wars. For Greenie, because I love you and you applied WD-40 to the squeaky bits. And as always, for the Swamp rats.


End file.
